


double-edged

by canticle



Series: canticle's kinkmeme fills [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: D/s undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Safewords, i'm a dumpster fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: The dagger peeks out, just a little bit. Ryuji can’t keep his eyes off it. “I’m gonna ask you somethin’, and it’s gonna be weird.”“This is already pretty weird,” Akira says, but he’s listening. His shoulders are angled towards Ryuji, his demeanor easy and open. “But please, make it weird.”





	double-edged

**Author's Note:**

> this....i can't even begin to explain or excuse myself. i don't even like knives. why did this prompt grab me by the balls. why am i full of regret.
> 
> written in three hours for the kinkmeme, and thus completely unedited. please let me know if you see any glaring grammar/spelling mistakes/misformatting!

Vaguely, Ryuji’s aware of the commotion around him, but the siren-song of his Shadow-master is louder than everything but the heartbeat pounding in his skull. There’s shouting. There’s people like him, two legs, two arms, bright costumes, and the song winds itself into his brain and points him towards the one with a mask like a knife and hands red as blood.

_::Kill the leader,::_ the song whispers, and Ryuji spins on his heel to the beat of the music and charges.

There’s yelling. There’s movement, but none of them can hit him, not buoyed by the song, not focused and eager to please his master, to live with the song in his head and his heart forever and ever. He raises his weapon—

Before he can impact, the red-blood-hands move. Before he can dodge, there’s a hand around the dangling scarf around his neck and cold sweet pain pricking at the softest bits of his meat suit, keeping his head up and his eyes locked on grey as cold as steel.

“Drop your weapon,” blood-hands rumbles, low and dark and deadly, a voice like a purr that wipes out even the song for a white-hot moment, makes him want to bend to that one’s will—

“Joker, let him go!” comes a shout from the side, and he’s shoved back abruptly, staggering just long enough for a massive paper fan to catch him square in the face and send him sprawling to the ground.

Ryuji is very abruptly aware of three things.

One, there’s a bright pinprick of pain beneath his chin.

Two, he’s ragingly, breathtakingly hard.

Three, as Joker waves for him to fall back and he lets Fox take his place with a sigh of relief, he is completely and utterly _fucked._

He doesn’t talk much on the way out of Mementos, too busy leaning his too-warm face into the cool window of the Monabus and pressing his thumb to the scratch beneath his chin. There’s blood on his glove and his scarf; it doesn’t show on the latter, but he keeps his hand fisted to conceal the former as he puzzles over his thoughts, worrying them like a dog with a bone.

What the _fuck_ is up with that reaction, first of all.

Ryuji’s never been a masochist. He still _isn’t_ a masochist;  getting slapped around doesn’t get him hot at all. Neither does the thought of stabbing his best friend, either; now that he’s thinking about it, it makes him vaguely queasy, remembering the force behind his wind-up, picturing what the result of slamming his spiked bat straight into Joker’s unprotected head.

Bad thoughts, actually. He fists his hand into his scarf and tugs on it, swallowing. Beside him Oracle shoots him a side-eye but doesn’t actually say anything. He’s grateful for that.

But when he gets home, under cover of night in the safety of his own bed, he thinks back to how deftly Joker had flipped the dagger in his hand, how unhesitating he was, the feel of cold steel and sharp blade against his neck, and his breath catches in his throat.

O- _kay._ That…sure is a thing.

He tries to avoid thinking about it, but they’re slated to go into Mementos nearly every day this week—Futaba needs the practice as their navigator and Akira needs more money for team weapons and medical supplies, plus they’re hoping the door at the end of Kaitul has decided to open since their victory over Medjed. That means days and days of watching Joker spin his dagger on his finger, watching him leap into combat and strike like a snake, watching him slip his gun from his holster and take out Shadows like it’s nothing, like it’s a _game._

And his luck runs out on the third day, because Joker catches him watching.

Ryuji’s mouth is dry as bone as Joker leaps, stupid coattails flaring out behind him, as he grabs a Shadow by the throat and turns it into dust in a single slice. As he lands, Joker looks up and meets his eyes.

Ryuji’s never been happier to have a full-face mask than he is right now, as his blush is immediate and fierce. He looks away immediately; when he chances a peek back, though, Joker is still watching him, though his head is tilted just slightly, like Ryuji’s suddenly a puzzle he wants to solve.

He waves the others off after they exit Mementos that day, but grabs Ryuji by the elbow and pulls him aside. “You have something you wanna say?” he asks, and _god_ Ryuji has never been more grateful for his ability to read Akira’s resting bitch face than he is right now. That careful blankness has its cracks, and Ryuji reads them in the curious tilt to his head and the furrow in his brow.

Akira wants to know what’s going on. Akira is his best friend. Akira held a knife to his throat two days ago and gave him the most unwarranted sexual epiphany of his life.

Ryuji swallows to wet his mouth and says “Can we…head back in? Just for a minute?”

If he’s going to tell him, he wants to do it right.

Oh- _ho,_ and now Akira’s _really_ curious—his eyes narrow, just slightly, and if he was a cat his pupils would be round as dinner plates. “Not for long,” he says, and Ryuji shakes his head. It won’t take long one way or the other. “Alright.”

They pass the turnstiles and waver into the other world, and Ryuji smooths his hands down the sleek lines of his bodysuit, watches Akira tuck his hands into his Metaverse pockets.

The dagger peeks out, just a little bit. Ryuji can’t keep his eyes off it. “I’m gonna ask you somethin’, and it’s gonna be weird.”

“This is already pretty weird,” Akira says, but he’s listening. His shoulders are angled towards Ryuji, his demeanor easy and open. “But please, make it weird.”

“Alright.” He takes a breath. “I—when Ann snapped me out of that Brainwash the other day, I, uh…realized something.”

Akira makes a ‘go on’ motion.

He takes another breath. “I want you to put your knife up against my throat and fuck me.”

It’s not often that someone can pull something over Kurusu Akira, but by god Ryuji’s managed it. His eyes go wide as saucers behind his mask, his stance pulling tight. “Ryuji, what the _hell_ ,” he breathes.

It doesn’t sound like a no. Ryuji leans forward, abruptly eager, like a scent-hound on a trail. “You heard me,” he says, low and fast. “Dude. I know it’s messed up, but—I think even before she slapped me out of it, you had me on a string. You coulda done anything to me as long as you kept that knife on me. It was the hottest thing I’d ever felt.”

“You—“ Akira laughs, just once, low and warm enough to set a fire smoldering in Ryuji’s gut. “That’s a pretty effed-up kink. And you want _me_ to do it? Not, say, Ann?”

Ryuji’s shaking his head even before the words are out of Akira’s mouth. “It’s gotta be you. It’s—“ he struggles for a moment, hands making useless gestures by his side. “It’s the way you handle it. The way you move. I trust you not to slit my throat, but I also trust you to make it feel like you _could._ ”

Akira’s mouth is twisted, but his eyes are alight with interest. “If I do this,” he says slowly, “there are rules.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like—safewords. You get one, I get one. If either of us feel like things are getting too out of control, we use them.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. Anythin’ else?” Ryuji knows he’s way too eager, but he can’t help it—Akira’s right there at the edge of agreeing to do it, he’s _right there,_ if Ryuji just gave him a little push—

He barely sees Akira move before he’s shoved up against a turnstile, a forearm across his chest and the dagger he sees in his dreams laid against his lips. He can’t help but make an eager noise, his body jerking straight upright like a puppet on a string. “If we do this,” Joker says, and it _is_ Joker, every line of his body is Joker through and through, “I am the one in charge. You do exactly as I say.”

His voice is low and dark, almost a match for the way he’d spoken to Ryuji back then, and Ryuji can’t stifle the pleading noise that escapes the back of his throat. “O-kay. Yeah,” he breathes, barely opening his mouth. “Whatever you want.”

“Give me your safeword. Something you won’t say by mistake.”

“Uhh—“ Ryuji racks his brain frantically. “Kamoshida.”

The disgust in Akira’s face cracks his Joker façade just briefly, just enough for Ryuji to see it. “Really?”

“If I’m sayin’ that, then you know it must be a problem,” Ryuji says doggedly. “That’s my safeword. What’s yours?”

“Velvet.”

It’s a little weird, but sorta fits; Ryuji nods, and Akira steps back and sheathes his dagger. “Alright,” he says, and runs a hand through his hair. “Meet me here after school tomorrow. We’ll postpone tomorrow’s run. Everyone’s been looking tired anyway.”

Ryuji’s never been more eager to get to school in his life, if only so he can actually get through the day. He’s jittery and unfocused, even more so than usual; he checks his phone six times in two minutes and gets a piece of chalk to the forehead for his troubles. He can’t find Akira at lunch, which is probably for the best; by the time he gets to the subway, he’s almost vibrating out of his skin.

Akira doesn’t say a word to him when they meet at the entrance; they just step straight from the mundane into the Metaverse, side by side.

Ryuji’s already hard.

By unspoken consensus they head towards the benches set towards the side of the Mementos entrance. Akira glides like a shadow; Ryuji feels clumsy and inept in comparison, especially with the feel of his skintight suit chafing at him. He’d be more ashamed, but Joker’s hand has already gone back to rest on the hilt of his dagger, and it makes Ryuji’s heart flutter up into his throat in giddy anticipation.

Joker stops right before the bench. “What’s your safeword?” he says abruptly.

Ryuji frowns. “Same as it was yesterday. Kamoshida.” Even saying it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. He guesses it’s supposed to.

Joker nods, just once. Then in a move that sets his pulse jackhammering, he spins on his heel and grabs Ryuji by the scarf around his neck. “You wanted me to fuck you with a knife to your throat?” he says, his voice dark and slick as an oil spill, his knee wedging between Ryuji’s legs. “You’d best make it worth my while.”

He can’t stop his mouth from dropping open.

This is _not_ what he expected when he asked for Akira’s help, but _god_ it should have been. The look in Joker’s eyes is predatory, cool and calculating, and when he presses forward, shoving Ryuji against the wall, Ryuji groans low in his throat. “What do you want?” he says, trying for ‘suave’ and ending somewhere short of ‘needy.’

“What do you want, _sir._ ”

“Wait, rea—“ He can’t finish his sentence, because Joker’s got the tip of his dagger inserted between his scarf and his skin, the metal cool on his rabbiting pulse point. It digs into his adam’s apple just slightly, and his knees go a little mushy. “Sir,” he says, a little lamely, but Joker’s smile is encouragement enough. “What do you want, sir?”

“Be still,” Joker says, and twists the dagger so that one of the sharp edges rests against his skin, sharp and threatening. It sends a massive shiver down his spine, but he holds himself as still as he can. God, he’s never been this hard in his fucking life. He’s rewarded with another smile, and then Joker pulls the dagger outward, parting his scarf like it’s smoke. He lets the pieces fall from his hand to the ground, leaving Ryuji’s neck bare and exposed for him. “Strip.”

Ryuji strips.

It’s less awkward than he thought it would be, and less sexy than he’d hoped. Neither of those things seem to matter to Joker—his eyes follow each patch of exposed skin as Ryuji unzips the suit over his chest and shimmies his arms free, as he toes his boots off and goes to pull off the rest.

Joker stops him, though, laying the point of the knife onto his sternum. It’s cold as ice against his overheated flesh, and only gets colder as Joker traces it down his stomach, letting the very point cross from flesh to suit as he— _fuck,_ trails it right over his _dick,_ and Ryuji physically cannot stop the shudder or the groan that he makes.

“Don’t stifle your noises,” Joker tells him, low and deadly as he traces the curve of Ryuji’s hip into his thigh, down to his knee, then runs the flat of the blade up his erection again. “Go ahead and finish up.”

Ryuji shucks off the rest of his clothes with more speed than finesse. The underbits of his suit are more like a painted-on version of underwear—god, he’s hard enough that the tip of his dick pokes out the top, he’s turned on enough that he’s leaking and it’s almost enough to embarrass him until Joker lays the tip of the knife onto the head of his dick.

Ryuji freezes. His dick doesn’t, jerking toward the knife like it’s got a death wish. Joker smiles, slow and sultry. “You like that I’ve got a knife to your cock, don’t you,” he purrs. “You like that I could flip this around and slice you up? You like the danger?”

“Fuck yeah,” Ryuji whispers, then whimpers when the knife presses down harder. “S-sir! Fuck yeah, sir.”

“Good.” It pulls away, to Ryuji’s displeasure. “On your knees.” As Ryuji sinks down, Joker fishes something out of his pocket and presses it into Ryuji’s hand. It’s a tube of lube, and he really should be beyond embarrassment by now, but he flushes red clear down to his shoulders. “You want to get fucked, Ryuji?” Joker purrs, resting the tip of the dagger under Ryuji’s chin and tilting his head up until their eyes meet. “Prep yourself, and pleasure me.”

It’s simultaneously the most awkward thing and the hottest thing Ryuji has ever done in his life.

Joker keeps the knife pressed just under his chin, the tip digging just this side of uncomfortable into the soft skin of his neck as Ryuji mouths over his cock and does his best to stretch himself open. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but it’s the first time he’s done it with an audience, and it’s definitely the first time he’s done it with a knife pressed to his throat, hard enough that he’s drooling pre-come, hard enough that he’s glad the air is still in Mementos because if a stray breeze so much as brushed past him he might come here and now.

He’s never sucked dick before, either, but today is a day of firsts, and apparently he’s not half-bad at it. Joker’s knife is steady at his throat, but his free hand cards through Ryuji’s hair, traces along the edges of his mask and the shell of his ear, and the pleased noises he makes low in his throat send chills up and down Ryuji’s spine and set the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

He loses himself in the stretch of his mouth around Joker’s cock, the bitter-salt taste in his mouth, the burn of his fingers spreading himself wide and the cool metal against his neck, and it’s almost a shock when Joker pulls the knife away and fists his hand in Ryuji’s hair, dragging him off. “You’d best be ready,” he says—almost pants, it sounds like; when Ryuji looks up, there’s a faint flush on his cheeks.

He settles down on the ground and drags Ryuji up and over his thighs until he’s straddling Joker; he even fists Ryuji’s cock and gives him a pump or two, which sets each and every one of Ryuji’s nerves alight and has him making a strangled, garbled noise. “Yeah,” Joker agrees, low and dark and deadly, and spreads his legs just a bit more, the fabric of his slacks smooth and silky against the back of Ryuji’s thighs. “C’mon.”

He nudges, and Ryuji sinks down, his thighs trembling, moaning out loud at the stretch and the burn, the feeling of fullness taking his breath away—and then Joker rocks up into him and pricks him with the dagger just under the chin, a white-hot pinprick of pain-pleasure that makes him cry out.

“Look at you,” Joker purrs, rocking up into him again, setting a slow and steady pace that fuzzes Ryuji’s higher functions right out of his head and leaves him moaning, clinging onto the edges of Joker’s coat. The dagger skates across his chest, dangerously close to his nipple, and he cries out at a particularly well-timed thrust. “I could put this right here—“ he lays the edge against the left side of his ribcage—“and press in—“ he does, just a bit—“and hit your heart. I could carve my name all over your body and you’d just sit there and take it while my cock is inside of you, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Ryuji moans, his face screwed up behind the mask. He yelps at the feel of cold metal pressed against his lower stomach—his dick gives a twitch that he’s far too gone to be embarrassed over. It’s a heady pleasure, almost overwhelming, cold steel and hot skin and slick gloves caressing up and down his side, his cheek, a thumb sliding between his lips—he sets his teeth into the glove when Joker thrusts up.

“You missed a word,” Joker murmurs low and lovely, the dagger scraping its way back up Ryuji’s chest to rest at the hollow of his throat. One wrong move, one twitch that Joker can’t react in time to, and Ryuji could be bleeding all over the Metaverse.

He almost goes off then and there, but holds himself back by the skin of his teeth. “D-did I?”

“Don’t do it again.”

“A-and what if I do?” The knife digs into the soft meat of his throat, and Ryuji feels it pierce through, just a bit, just enough that he sees Joker’s eyes widen, just enough that his hips buck forward of their own accord.

In answer, Joker pulls his pistol in a single smooth motion, sets it to Ryuji’s temple, and pulls the trigger.

There’s a click, and a noise loud enough to wipe every thought from Ryuji’s mind, and between the rush of adrenaline and Joker’s hand on his cock he comes so hard he whites the fuck out.

When he comes back to himself his back is pressed to the cold stone floor, his thighs still hooked over Joker’s. He’s cold, and he’s empty, but there’s a hand on his thigh, and when he opens his eyes a slit he sees Joker’s red glove.

Above him Joker is making tiny pained noises; below him there’s louder, wetter noises. He manages to lift his head up enough to see Joker jerking himself frantically, his face nearly as red as his gloves, and he makes a strangled noise as he comes all over Ryuji’s chest and stomach.

Well. It’s not like there wasn’t a mess there already. Ryuji lifts a lead-heavy hand and drags a finger through the mingled fluid, watching Joker rock back onto his heels, panting like he’s just run a marathon. Ryuji’s entire body feels like he’s floating—every limb is full of anti-gravity and static, and he’s still shivering from the aftershocks.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says hoarsely.

“You’ve got come on your mask,” Akira tells him, just as hoarse. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone come that hard.” He laughs abruptly, a little hysterical. “That was—Ryuji. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. What the hell. Why do you like knives so much? Why do you like getting poked with a knife??”

“Dude, iunno?” He shrugs against the floor. “Lemme enjoy the afterglow, jeez.”

It takes a few moments, but he eventually sits up with a jolt, staring at Akira’s discarded pistol. “Bro. Akira.”

“Don’t call me ‘bro’ after my dick’s just been in you, please,” Akira says with a wince, but Ryuji ignores him, pointing to the gun.

“Akira, what the hell. Shouldn’t I be—“

“Paintball rounds,” Akira shrugs. “I doodled little ‘bang!’s on them to make them stun rounds, but I didn’t know if it’d work.”

“You’re fulla bullshit,” Ryuji says in genuine awe. “That’s incredible.”

Akira _dia_ s him before they leave, to Ryuji’s immense displeasure, but Akira insists—there’s absolutely no way he’s letting Ryuji go around with _stab wounds_ in his _neck._ (“It’s barely a puncture! What are you, my ma?” he grumbles in displeasure.)

Later that night, he gets a text from Akira; when he opens it, he almost drops his phone.

It’s him; the angle’s just right so that most of his face is out of frame, but the bottom of his skull mask is visible, as are his lips wrapped around Joker’s cock. He can see the dimple in his throat where the knife is pressing in. It must have taken some pretty handy work to get an angle as good as this.

**> >to: kurusu akira  
**_im gonna jerk it to this for the rest of my life  
thx  
  
_**> >from: kurusu akira**  
_Anytime._


End file.
